Holmes at Home
by Alice Wright
Summary: Holmes has never mentioned his family before apart from his brother. It is thus to Dr. Watson's great surprise that he finds himself Holmes' guest on a holiday to his family homestead. What surprises await the doctor when he sees the family of Sherlock Holmes?
1. The Invitation

Holmes' mentions of family never had gone past the vaguest details. He had mentioned that his ancestors were country squires and that he was related to Verner, but little more could I ever get from him. He did not even mention to me that he had a brother until we had known each other for quite a long time. On the subject of his parents he was entirely mute, choosing to brush off my questions like so much dust. It was thus with some shock that, one Thursday afternoon, Holmes looked up from his pipe and told me that he was going to visit these mysterious persons.

Frankly, I was shocked. After the repeated dismissals of my inquiries and Holmes' obstinacy on the subject, I had begun to think of the man who sat across from me as not having parents, or at least not having ones whom he would visit.

"They live in Oxford," he stated simply. "About half an hour by train. I am scheduled to meet with them this Saturday and then spend the night. I would be most obliged if you could come with me."

"I'd be honored," said I, now doubly surprised by this invitation.

"Excellent, Watson! I shall send a telegram immediately."

And with that, it was arranged that I should meet Holmes' parents. I could scarcely sleep the next few nights now that I was to be admitted into this most secretive of clubs. Holmes himself seemed anxious as well, going about our rooms like a dog on a scattered scent. As he had no pressing cases at the time, he had just concluded an important forgery case for the Duke of Warrick, he was in the most tempestuous of spirits. All hours of the day and night I heard him scraping away at his violin and in the short period between Thursday and Saturday he managed to conduct two experiments that resulted in Mrs. Hudson airing out the study. I found myself wishing Saturday would come sooner not only out of my curiosity, but also to escape the stench of sulphuric acid and methane from Holmes' repeated experiments.

In my frustration, I found myself cleaning my desk, sorting through some of the case histories which had accumulated during the intense activity of the last few weeks. Holmes had left an essay of some length entitled "Poetry in Scotland" which had become practically engrained into the wood itself from the time I had accidently spilt some whiskey on my desk. As I worked away at it with a penknife, I studied what little I could see through the stains. The first name of the author was clearly visible along with the words "University of Ox—." The last name was almost entirely obscured so that I could only make out that it began with an "H" and nothing more. I thought back to before the article's unfortunate dousing. I had glanced through it when first I discovered it and found it to be an ordinary literary essay, noting with some amusement that Carlisle was mentioned as one of the significant poets. But that still left the mystery of why Holmes had placed it on my desk. Other than as proof that he did know the famous poet's name, I could think of no reason why Holmes would have gone to any effort to show it to me. After some thought, I came to the conclusion that Holmes had read my relation of our first case together and now sought to prove to me that he was not entirely ignorant in regards to literature.

This theory of mine seemed to be proven by Holmes' own remarks on the train.

"You were mistaken, Watson," he said as the train left King's Cross station. "When you said that my knowledge of literature is non-existent. While it is true that I do not keep up with the more modern writers, I do have some knowledge of the classics and particularly of Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare?" said I, scarcely believing my ears. "Really, Holmes, what could you know about Shakespeare? I thought you kept your mind free of any trivial details, like an organized attic."

He looked at me through his eyelashes, a small smile on his lips. "I could hardly help but store some furniture from my father's profession," said he.

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place. "Your father is a professor at Oxford? An English professor?"

"Very good, Watson," he said. "Though hardly the time I would have expected from a seasoned _raissoneur_. It has been five days since I put that instructive, if somewhat fanciful, essay on your desk with my father's name on it, yet only now do you put the incidents together. You see what I mean when I say that 'you see but you do not observe.'"

Indeed, I did feel somewhat foolish upon discovering that Holmes had arranged the whole thing.

"That article, then, was your father's work?" I said, now heartily regretting that I had treated it so ill.

He nodded. "Written some years ago if I recall. He has hardly been up to scientific standards with his publishing."

With that, he turned his gaze to the quickly passing houses that sped past the window as we left London.

For the next fifteen minutes, Holmes retained the utter silence which I was used to receiving on the subject of his parentage. My repeated questions on the topic got me nowhere and indeed seemed to be losing me ground rather than gaining it. Finally, when I had begun to think that my friend was going to endure the whole train ride in silence, he turned to me and said, "It is a curious thing, Watson, the way that art in the blood manifests itself. In one generation, it can be seen through the study of the written word and then in the next through acute reasoning and deduction. No two manifestations ever seem to be in complete agreement with one another. Rather, this curious impulse of the blood is deemed better or worse by those who have very little to do with it based on how the owner chooses to employ it. In this fashion, painters have been ridiculed by writers, engineers by cooks, and musicians by mathematicians." He stared out the window for a moment before adding, "It is a fascinating study, Watson, but one that I am not sure I wish to pursue."

* * *

I wonder if anyone will catch the "misused" word Holmes uses? The actual definition is quite different from what it sounds like, though it is accurate enough in regards to its subject.

Reviews appreciated as always.


	2. Coming Home

We reached the Oxford train station at about a quarter to twelve. Despite my eagerness to meet his family, Holmes seemed to be insistent on doing his utmost to delay the prospect. The first thing he did upon leaving the train was go into a nearby tavern and order us dinner. I was somewhat surprised by this, having assumed that we were going to dine with his family, but I made no objections lest he take offense. Furthermore, I was very hungry as Holmes had insisted that we get to the station two hours ahead of time and I had not had a bite to eat all day.

As I ate my cold chicken and gravy, I noticed that Holmes was in a most agitated state. He tapped his fingers relentlessly on the windowsill and was grinding his teeth so hard that I feared he might injure his jaw. He had not a bite to eat, preferring instead to smoke a cigarette and stare out the window at the passing traffic. In this curious manner, we passed half an hour. Finally, Holmes broke his staring match with the window, glanced at his watch, and swiftly left the tavern with only the sound of a few coins dropping on the table and an abrupt gesture to indicate that I should depart with him.

As accustomed as I was to Holmes' abruptness, this was a whole new level of suddenness for me. I hurriedly put down my fork and made a hasty attempt at making myself presentable before bolting out the door, leaving behind a very confused and worried manager. By the time I caught up with Holmes, he had already hailed a cab from the line outside the train station. The young cabbie looked at me curiously as I ran up to the curb, but a fierce look from Holmes made him turn his gaze back to the horses. "I have already given him the address," he said as I slid into the cab after him. "Although I fear our young cabbie may have more eyes than ears." With that he thumped his cane twice on the roof of the cab, signaling the cabbie to start driving.

We had scarcely made it two blocks before Holmes once again tapped on the top of the cab with his cane and hopped out.

"Holmes, what are you…?" I cried, only to be silenced by an imperious wave of his hand. With that he disappeared into a nearby florist emerging some minutes later with a dozen red roses wrapped in blue paper.

"It is part of our ritual greeting," he said as he pulled himself back into the cab. He took one of the dozen out of the paper sleeve and examined it like it was one of his scientific curiosities. "There is very little that can induce my family to follow the simple laws of reason apart from these few gestures of sanity," he explained, finally placing the flower in his lapel.

"They are for your mother then, I take it?" I said, attempting to grasp what was occurring.

He gave a short, loud snort which almost could have been considered a laugh. "Yes, Mrs. Holmes is fond of roses; the irony of which is inescapable," he replied, unceremoniously dropping the parcel between us. "But it is mostly a family offering. I scarcely think she would mind anymore if I forgot them."

I sat back in the cab, wondering what sort of rift could have caused a mother to stop caring about the affection of her son, if I could ever call anything Holmes did affectionate.

Within five minutes, the cab was parked outside a simple two-storied Georgian affair with dusty brown bricks and a grey shingle roof. Holmes paid the cabbie and signaled to me that this was the place. I immediately jumped out of the cab and began examining the house with great interest. A small wall of the same dusty color as the house framed the side and back yards. Outside the house, various bushes were growing with some white buds spotting them here and there. Three thick vines of ivy framed each side of the door and the right side of the house, making it look like it was slowly being consumed by the greenery.

As Holmes and I walked up the path to the house, I noticed the severe agitation which my friend seemed to be under. Just as at the tavern, he was continually drumming his fingers, though now the tapping was largely maintained upon the side of his thigh as he walked. His eyes, usually keen to take in the tiniest detail of anything around him, were glued to the walk with such intensity that had I not known better I would have thought he was studying it for footprints. I had scarcely seen my friend so agitated since that ghastly case concluding at Reichenbach Falls. I would have asked him what was worrying him so, but his demeanor was all coldness and irritability. I should not have asked him the time of day when he was in such a mood, much less anything personal.

When we finally reached the front door, Holmes knocked on it with his cane. Within a few moments, an old man appeared. As soon as I saw him, I knew that he had to be Holmes' father. He had startlingly white hair that was parted with an almost mathematical precision on the left side of his head. He had the same tall, lean frame-now a little bent with age—and the same piercing grey eyes that seemed to see straight to the heart of whatever they were looking at. They even shared the same strong, square chin. The only difference was that the elder man's nose was a shade larger and thicker, and had the redness that usually betokens a drunkard.

"Well, come in," the man said as soon as he saw us. Holmes nodded and stepped into the hallway and I quickly followed suit. "You'll have to excuse me answering the door myself," the old man said, his gaze focused on me. "I'm afraid I've gotten into the habit of doing it so that the students might not be scared off. Undergraduates are a very shy lot—especially in the English department."

I nodded my understanding and he smiled. "Very good," said he, now turning to his son. I could see his gaze harden somewhat as he looked his son up and down. Holmes looked straight ahead, giving me the absurd impression that he was a statue and Mr. Holmes was studying the craftsmanship. Finally, Mr. Holmes spoke up, "Well now, how is our man from the other 'Other Place'?"

"Cambridge," Holmes mouthed to me before replying, "Very well, thank you. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."

I smiled and offered my hand, which the elder man shook with an earnest, curious air that unmistakably reminded me of his son. If I had any thoughts that Holmes was playing a trick on me they were instantly dispelled.

"I hope you got my telegram?" Holmes said almost as soon as our hands had parted.

The older man's brow furrowed. "Yes, we did, though I'm not sure if we have enough room for the two of you and Mycroft."

Holmes' eyebrows rose. "Mycroft is here?"

"Yes. He said you two had planned on coming the same weekend," his father replied, his brow furrowing with consternation.

"I'm afraid he did not mention this to me," Holmes growled.

"Well, no matter," said a voice from the stairs. Mr. Holmes turned to reveal Mycroft standing in a maroon dressing gown at the foot of the stair. He rolled a cigar between two fingers and grinned at his brother. "I reserved a room at the inn as soon as I heard that you were bringing Dr. Watson. My room will be vacated by ten o' clock." He delved into his dressing gown pocket to retrieve a silver plated lighter with which he proceeded to light his cigar. "Until then, I suppose I am allowed the luxury of a dressing gown and a good smoke."

I could see Holmes roll his eyes, but with that little smile of frustrated amusement that I had come to associate with his interactions with Mycroft.

"For God's sake Mycroft, put that away," Mr. Holmes said, gesturing with impatience to the cigar. "Your mother will be in fits if she so much as smells it."

Mycroft simply shrugged his shoulders and extinguished the cigar. "As you wish, father."

"Mrs. Holmes is a sensitive sort, Dr. Watson," Mr. Holmes said, turning to me. "I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," said I.

"I shouldn't like to upset her, what with her sensitive condition."

I could see out of the corner of my eye Holmes about to say something, but a warning look from Mycroft cut it short.

"Well, if we shan't smoke, I suppose we ought to have a drink," Mycroft said. "Father, might you show my brother and his guest into the sitting room? I'll be back down in a minute. There is port is there not?"

"What do you mean, is there port? Of course we have port!" Mr. Holmes said, seemingly insulted by the idea. "What sort of household doesn't have any port?"

"I was just making sure, Father," Mycroft replied, already half-way up the stairs.

"Well you needn't. I can take care of my own business, thank you," the older man called back. He shook his head as Mycroft disappeared into the upper story. "Just because he audits the books for the government doesn't mean he has authority over my liquor cabinet," he murmured half to himself. "But I digress. This way, gentlemen."

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


	3. Parlor Talk

Thank you to sagredo for his/her wonderful reviews and to everyone else who has read this little series I've created.

* * *

Mr. Holmes led us from the foyer into a little sitting room on the west side of the house. It was a small fairly dark room, with two gas lights on either side of a mantelpiece providing the illumination for the room. The only other light came from a large latticed window, which gave a view of a neatly kept garden with different flowers and vegetables in various states of bloom and decline. The room was furnished with four Queen Anne armchairs, some side tables, a liquor cabinet, and a mantelpiece with an assortment of books and, strangely enough, a human skull. The liquor cabinet stood on the far side of the room and that is where Mr. Holmes immediately went, telling us to seat ourselves. I chose a comfy looking red armchair with a cushion embroidered with a red rose. Holmes chose the chair closest to the door and draped himself over it so that his long legs hung over one arm of the chair and his head was supported by the wing. He then folded his hands over his stomach and began staring out the window, seemingly oblivious to the little room and its inhabitants.

Holmes' father did not seem to notice this peculiar behavior. Instead, he began pulling out glasses, checking them for spots and then choosing a select few for each of the guests. "What would you like to drink, Doctor?" he said as he examined a wine glass.

"Some gin would be nice," I said, cutting off my customary "if you have it" given his reaction to Mycroft's inquiry.

Mr. Holmes nodded and exchanged the glass for a tumbler he had previously inspected. "Eh, would you like that with tonic or on the rocks?" he said, already pouring the gin into a tumbler.

"With tonic if you don't mind," I replied.

"Not at all, my dear boy, not at all," Mr. Holmes said. "To be perfectly frank, I prefer it with tonic myself, but you never know how one likes their drink until they ask for it." He smiled and poured some tonic into my glass, then handed it to me with a wink. "Gin and tonic," he murmured half to himself. The idea seemed to amuse him greatly. "You're my kind of fellow, Dr. Watson," he said as he walked back to the liquor cabinet. "I would drink gin myself, but my stomach's not what it used to be. My doctor says that it's ulcers, but I put it down to just being an old man. I am of the sixth age, the lean and slippered pantaloon—" Here he pulled at his trousers as if demonstrating how they were "a world too wide for his shrunk shank" but only succeeded in proving them a credit to his tailor. "—And with that comes things like not having a stomach that works as a stomach should." He shook his head and began pouring a glass of port. "It's a shame, but it's the natural cycle of things. I'm simply glad that I'm not in the seventh stage."

"A second childishness," I chimed in, eager to prove myself knowledgeable concerning literature.

Holmes gave a little snort of derision. The old English professor seemed not to hear him though. He nodded a little sadly and murmured to himself, "Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." He gave a little sigh and set down the decanter of port. "It truly is a pity."

For a moment, we stayed like this, with Mr. Holmes wistfully staring off into the distance and I staring into my glass of gin and tonic. Holmes made no effort to intervene, instead maintaining his own silent contemplation of the garden. Finally, Mr. Holmes shook his head and gave me a small, sad smile. "Well, we must taste while we can, mustn't we?" he said, topping off the glass of port. He took a large gulp from the glass and eyed it with a certain fondness before turning back to his work. "I suppose, Sherlock," he said over his shoulder as he pulled out another inspected glass. "That you'd like port along with your brother?"

"Actually, I'll have gin with the doctor," Holmes replied absently, not removing his gaze from the garden. Usually, such intense attention on the part of the great detective was a sign that something significant was happening. I turned my head to see what it was my friend was so interested in, but to all appearances it was simply an ordinary garden—with no inhabitants or tools. Indeed, from where we sat one could not even see the ground as a thick hedge had grown under the window. I turned back to the room, puzzled as to why Holmes should take such an interest in something so mundane. It was then that I truly looked at Holmes and his countenance. It was not attention that he was holding. His eyes were glazed over and his whole attitude reflected a man who was trapped in a place where he did not wish to be and was trying to make the best of it by pretending he was someplace else.

"Fine, Mycroft and I will share the port," Mr. Holmes said as he prepared the drinks, not seeming to notice his son's demeanor. I began to wonder whether things had always been this way in the Holmes household. Had Sherlock always been staring out windows wishing he was somewhere else while his father stood obliviously making drinks and chatting about Shakespeare? I looked at the white haired old man humming a bit of _the Marriage of Figaro_ to himself between sips of port, and wondered whether he had ever actually known the smart young detective whom I met at St. Bart's all those years ago.

Well, whether or not he truly knew his son, Mr. Holmes at least knew enough not interrupt his contemplation. He set the gin and tonic on the end table by Holmes' head before retreating to the chair nearest the liquor cabinet. Holmes gave it a passing glance and then resumed his staring match with the window. Mr. Holmes glanced from his son to me, seeming unsure how to start any sort of conversation with one forth of the party absent in spirit and the other fourth physically. Finally, he turned to me and cleared his throat.

"Well, Dr. Watson, I hope Sherlock hasn't painted us badly for you," he said.

I was about to heartily deny it when Holmes spoke up.

"Actually, I've given him very little in terms of information," he remarked casually, not removing his gaze from the garden.

Mr. Holmes looked at his son in bafflement for a few seconds. "You mean to tell me you've just brought him over without telling him anything?" he said.

Holmes pulled out of his trance for a moment and looked steadily at his father. He then turned to me and said with a wave of his hand, "Watson, you know my methods. Deduce."

To be honest, I was a trifle upset to be put on the spot like that, especially in front of his father. But seeing as there were no alternatives, I gathered my wits about me. "You are an English professor at Oxford," said I, stalling as I scanned the man in front of me for any clues. "You have a garden out back which you were working on recently. And you type a good deal."

"That's very good," said Mr. Holmes. He turned his attention to his son. "I really do think you ought to teach, Sherlock. You're always complaining about how no one is able to reason properly. Why not show them how?"

"I do, in my way," Holmes replied, his fingers now pressed together. He took the tumbler that stood beside him on the table and took a sip of it in much the same manner that I have seen him use his pipe. Indeed, to my eyes, he seemed to be using it as a substitute for the beloved object—which he had pointedly not packed. "As I have said before, I write a good deal on the subject and I instruct those that show an interest. Besides, it is not as simple a matter as you make of it. For example, despite my tutelage, Watson has failed to notice that you generally wear glasses, are left-handed rather than the usual right, and have developed the unfortunate habit of picking at your nails with a pencil."

"You're too hard on the boy," Mr. Holmes said, frowning at Sherlock. "I think it was well done."

Holmes gave a dismissive gesture with his free hand.

I flushed, torn between the two sides and embarrassed by my failure. Finally, I murmured a swift "Thank you" to Mr. Holmes and buried myself in my gin and tonic.

* * *

Poor Watson. He's ending up dealing more with Holmes' father than Holmes is-hardly the way to treat a guest. Well, let's hope this visit will finally satisfy his curiosity about Holmes' family.

I'll get to Holmes' mother soon enough. Have patience!

Reviews appreciated as always!


	4. A Professional Disagreement

Short bit this round, but it's a needed short bit.

* * *

It wasn't long after my embarrassing performance that Mycroft appeared—now fully dressed.

"Well, aren't we a happy bunch?" he said as he looked around the room. His eyes fell on Sherlock. "Ah, we were up to parlor games again, weren't we?"

"It is hardly parlor games, Mycroft," Holmes responded, some brightness and fire coming back to his features. "I happen to make a living through deduction and…"

"Yes, yes, we know," Mycroft said as he seated himself in the only free chair, glass of port in hand. "The science of deduction, very important, how you earn your bread and cheese, and so on. I am merely referring to how you show off." He took a moment to sip at his port before adding, "Or rather have others show off for you. I see from your gloomy expression, doctor, that you were the one Sherlock picked to 'deduce'?"

"I was merely making a point," Holmes said before I could speak a word. "That I do occasionally teach."

Mycroft set down his port at this and looked at his father. "Oh dear, not that argument again. Father, you know that both Sherlock and I have serious professions to attend to. I know you wanted us to become professors…"

"Wanted you to? That's what I trained you to be!" Mr. Holmes said, suddenly incensed. "From the day you were born, Mycroft, you were to be an Oxford English professor."

"And look how well that turned out," Holmes said wryly, taking a sip of his drink.

Mr. Holmes turned to my friend with fire in his eyes. "You are not one to talk, young man. You were to be an Oxford professor too, once I realized that Mycroft had more of a head for figures than fiction. But then you had to go and apply to Cambridge! Cambridge of all things! What sort of decent man goes to Cambridge?"

"I've known several decent men who've gone to Cambridge, father," Holmes replied, his tone beginning to match his sire's.

Mr. Holmes did not seem to hear him though. He had gotten up from his chair and was now pacing around the room in an agitated state. "The one thing I wanted out of you boys was an heir to my legacy! Why couldn't one of you, just one of you, have been interested in English? If I could just know that a Holmes was to fill my place at Oxford, I'd be able to die happy."

"All may not be lost, father," Mycroft said. He glanced slyly at his brother. "Who knows, maybe Sherlock will settle down and get married one of these days."

Holmes gave his brother a look that could have chilled ice. Knowing Holmes' position towards romantic attachment, not to mention his thoughts on womankind, I could not blame him. It was a dirty trick on Mycroft's part to lure his father into thinking that Holmes would give him grandchildren. Thankfully, Mr. Holmes did not cling to the idea.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft," he grumbled. "By the time Sherlock marries I'll be dead and gone. You on the other hand…"

"_I _haven't the time for a wife or children. Besides, there is scarcely a woman in London whom I would care to look upon as anything other than a lawful British citizen."

"Or unlawful," Holmes muttered.

"Well, you could at very least start teaching Mathematics," his father put in. "I know of a position in London that will be open soon. You wouldn't have to move."

Mycroft gave his father a stern look. "My country needs me, father."

"To audit her checkbooks and check her information? Surely, that's a waste of your talent, Mycroft," Mr. Holmes said.

Mycroft shrugged. "Perhaps it is, but it suits me," he said. "And after all, one's homeland must come before all else."

I could see Sherlock suppress a snort of derision at that. Mycroft was obviously exaggerating his sense of patriotism, though I knew both brothers to be true and loyal British citizens.

Mr. Holmes just glared at his sons and took a large gulp of port. He then fell back into his chair theatrically with the words, "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!"

"That's from _King Lear_, isn't it?" I said tentatively. All three Holmeses looked at me in surprise. Apparently, my presence had been forgotten in the heat of their argument.

"Yes, yes, it is," Mr. Holmes said after a few moments. All the color had drained out of his face, and he had begun to fidget with his wine glass. A silence fell over the room.

Suddenly, Holmes, of all things, began to laugh.

"My dear doctor," he said as his laughter subsided. "I'm afraid you have gotten an unfortunately intimate view of our family life. You see now why I do not speak of it often." He took a long drink of gin and tonic before setting down his glass on the table next to him. "I do hope, Watson, that now your curiosity has been fulfilled."

* * *

I should hope that yours is not, though.

Reviews appreciated as always.


	5. Storytelling

Thanks to mrspencil for her wonderful reviews!

* * *

It was a few minutes later and still nobody had spoken. The only sound that could be heard was Holmes' small, dark chuckle and the occasional tinkle of glass as more and more drink was consumed. No one knew quite what to do, and I certainly wasn't the one to solve the problem as my presence was the very center of it. Holmes saw it all as one grand joke, and no doubt felt a sense of entitlement in proving that his silence about his family had been kept for a reason. The other two members of the family were both in a profound state of embarrassment, which I could see no way to alleviate other than to vanish completely from the face of the earth. Finally, Mr. Holmes spoke up.

"Dr. Watson, I'm terribly sorry that you had to see that. I don't know what came over me. I just…"

"It's alright," I said, seeing that the man was about to break down completely. "I've seen much worse with some of my patients. A sickroom is never a jovial atmosphere and I've..."

"Yes, but as our guest…"

"If Watson says it is alright, then it is alright," Holmes said with finality.

I did not know whether to take this sudden agreement as a compliment or simply Holmes' way of ending the discussion. It was the first time that he had sided with me on something since we'd gotten here and, to be truthful, I was desperately in need of such a gesture. Though I had maintained my composure, I was beginning to feel the strain of being the outsider in a complex and tempestuous household. I gave Holmes a brief nod and smile which he returned in an even more subdued manner.

"Well, there's no use dwelling on it," Mycroft said after draining the last of his port. "What's done is done. Let's find a cheerier subject. How is the state of affairs with the young thespians?"

"Our production of _Hamlet_ is going well this year," his father said in soft, humbled voice.

Holmes swung his legs over the arm of the chair so that he was sitting normally in it. "My father," he said, in what I assume was a purposefully theatrical manner. "Is in charge of the little shows that occasionally spring up at Oxford."

At this, Mr. Holmes began to look a bit more cheerful. "Sherlock here," said he. "Once played Mercutio in our production of _Romeo and Juliet_. He did a fine job of it too." A smile came to his face. "He nearly outdid the fellow playing Romeo, if I recall correctly." Holmes gave one of his brief smiles at the mention of it. Now, I must admit that the idea of Holmes actually acting on the stage had occurred to me. Indeed, I have said before when I witnessed his sudden transfigurations from Holmes of Baker Street to common workman that the stage lost a fine actor when he devoted himself to crime. Somehow, it had never occurred to me that he had ever acted for the stage outside of my fancy. It was the most logical conclusion given his range and abilities, yet something about his cold demeanor made me assume that his artistry was confined to the study of crime and the violin. Now, though, as I listened to his father practically re-enact Holmes' portrayal of Mercutio, the thing seemed perfectly obvious to me. "I wonder that you had not told me about this before, Holmes," I said after Mr. Holmes had shouted out the last few lines of Mercutio's final speech in perfect imitation of my friend.

Sherlock gave me a puzzled look before replying, "You never asked."

"Oh, but that was nothing to the time the two of them," his father continued, now leaning conspiratorily towards me. "Played opposite each other as Feste and Malvolio."

"I still believe that locking in the closet scene is a bit too dark for the play," Mycroft said, giving me some idea of which character he had been playing. As if to cement this conclusion, he locked eyes with his brother and added, "Though Sherlock did play an excellent fool."

"Far better than being one, I fancy," Holmes retorted, not breaking the staring match that was developing between them.

For a moment, I thought that this was the start of another feud, and began to brace myself for it, but soon I recognized that they were not attacking each other in earnest. Both brothers, though not quite smiling, had an element of mischief about their features as they stared at one another. Holmes was poised on the edge of his seat, his thin hands pressed together in the way so peculiar to him. The only other times I had seen Holmes look so were when an interesting problem was presented before him or he met with someone whom he found intriguing. The attention and liveliness that was so commonly his had been restored to him and for that I was very grateful.

Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, did not see this state of affairs as an improvement.

"Good lord, are you two still fighting about that?" he said as he leaned back in his armchair, a worried look on his face. "If I had known that you two would keep going at each other over it, I never would have cast you for the parts."

"It is just a little jest, Father—quite far from the battle you deem it to be," Holmes said, his eyes still locked on his brother. "We both know that I am no fool."

"Do we now?" replied Mycroft. "And what proof do you have for that deduction, my dear boy?"

"My chronicler might be able to answer that one, brother mine," Holmes answered, turning to me.

I was flustered and beginning to grow tired of Holmes constantly using me as a tool in his little familial disputes. Nonetheless, I proceeded to recount some of Holmes' more interesting cases. Mycroft listened with only half an ear, having played a part in some of them and having heard the rest a dozen times before. Mr. Holmes, on the other hand, listened with such rapt attention, occasionally throwing in questions about certain details or persons, that I began to suspect that he had never heard of these cases at all. Drink having made me bold, I went so far as to put as much into words.

"Surely, you've heard of some of these stories, Mr. Holmes," said I after I had recounted 'the Adventure of the Cardboard Box'. "I publish them quite frequently in the Strand."

"Oh, I don't get the Strand, my dear boy," he said, crossing his hands over his stomach. "What you say is entirely unfamiliar to me."

"But surely, Sherlock…"

"My father has very important work to do, Watson," Holmes cut in. "He hasn't time to read your fabrications of my cases."

"I did read one of them," Mr. Holmes said, looking anxiously at his son. "It was… oh, what was its name? It had something to do with a goose. One of my students showed it to me."

"The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle!" said I, glad to see he had at least some knowledge of his son's work. Holmes on the other hand seemed unimpressed.

"Ah, yes, the Ryder case," said he. "A pitifully simple problem. I hardly see why you chose to write it down, Watson."

"Well, it made for a good story in my mind," Mr. Holmes said.

"Precisely," replied Holmes. "A good story and nothing more."

"There is merit in a good story, Sherlock," said Mr. Holmes with worried eyes. Mycroft had set down his drink, ready to intervene at the best possible moment. "Surely, I have taught you that."

"I do not place any merit in fiction, father," said Holmes. "Facts are what the world needs, not pretty little stories wrapped up in lies."

There was a palpable tension in the room. Mycroft began to say something when Mr. Holmes stood up.

"I have essays to grade," he said in a low monotone. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

With that, he left the room.

As the sound of Mr. Holmes' footsteps slowly receded, Mycroft spoke up. "You know, Sherlock," he said as he gazed at the door. "It wouldn't hurt you to learn a bit of tact."

"I do not suffer fools gladly," Holmes replied.

Mycroft turned to his brother and I believe I saw something of anger in his usually stoic gaze. "Yes, but you could at least not make fools suffer."

Holmes looked at his brother for a moment, as if considering the idea, then waved his hand dismissively. Mycroft shook his head and downed the last of his port.

* * *

Oh dear, Sherlock is certainly getting out of hand. But then again, he is terribly uncomfortable in this situation. Wonder why...

Reviews appreciated as always!


	6. Taking Leave

After two chapters of bickering, we're finally doing something different. Unfortunately, it's a really short chapter. My apologies.

* * *

For a few moments, silence reigned in that little room. The sun was just peeking above the houses across the street, casting the parlor in a dusty orange light. I began to wonder whether I should have left Baker Street at all. I might have been at home with a nice bit of beef that Mrs. Hudson had made up and Holmes could have gone on this fruitless excursion by himself. I wasn't really welcome, after all. The only function I was serving was as a tool for Holmes to promote his self-worth, which was naturally high to begin with. As I sat there, wondering when the next train to London would be, Holmes rose to his feet.

"Well, I suppose I had better visit mother before the evening is out," he said as he put on his hat. These words surprised me as I had assumed that Holmes' mother would have been living in the same house with his father. Indeed, his father had been referencing her from the beginning as if she were in the next room. "Mycroft?" said Holmes, turning to his brother, who was now busying himself with refilling his glass of port. "Do you intend to come with me?"

"I have already visited her today," Mycroft replied without looking up from his work. He took a sip of his drink before adding, "Did a bit of cleaning up while I was there."

"Then I suppose I shall go alone," Holmes said with a resigned air. Suddenly, his gaze hit upon me. "That is, unless, Dr. Watson wishes to join me."

"If it is not too much of an intrusion," said I, eager to meet this mysterious woman.

"Not in the least, I shall be glad for the company," replied Holmes, taking me warmly by the shoulder. He turned to Mycroft and asked, "Do we still have that trap we used as boys?"

"Yes, but you'll have to borrow Mr. Barker's pony," Mycroft replied.

Holmes dismissed this concern with a smile and a wave of his hand. "I can handle Mr. Barker. Where is the trap?"

"It ought to be just behind the garden wall. You can get it out through the side gate, I believe, though I don't see why you can't walk."

"You are growing slow, Mycroft," said Holmes. "I do not want the trap merely to go visit mother. That distance is easily walkable, as you so suggest. I wish to show Watson the town while we're here and, as you are no doubt aware, his leg proves troublesome at times due to the Afghan War."

Mycroft merely shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, once again sitting down with a glass of port. "I know nothing I say can persuade you when you're like this."

And thus it happened that I was loaded into a small open air trap by Holmes, who took careful pains to make sure my left leg was properly supported. He then led a small, but hearty looking brown pony between the shafts, attached the breast collar and neck strap, then leapt into the carriage with the bridle in his hands. I could see now how Holmes could so easily disguise himself as a horseman. The thing had all been completed within the space of five minutes and the animal moved under his guidance as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He gave a little slap with the reins and the pony began to move forward.

"Holmes," said I as his house disappeared behind us. "You know that it's my shoulder that was wounded in the Afghan War, don't you?"

"Yes, Watson."

"Then why did you tell Mycroft that it's my leg that gives me trouble?"

"Because," said Holmes. "A wounded shoulder does not require a trap."

* * *

Where is Holmes taking Watson? He really ought to be a little more candid with him after putting him through his family disputes-but then is Sherlock Holmes ever explicitly candid when there's a mystery around?

Reviews appreciated as always.


	7. A Wilted Bouquet

To make up for a short chapter last time, here is a long chapter and the long awaited introduction to Holmes' mother. Enjoy!

* * *

Holmes kept the pony walking forward at a slow rate. It took us nearly a minute to go a mere two blocks. I repeatedly asked him where we were going, but he had assumed that mantle of silence and mystery so common to him. So I waited and watched as the houses and shops went by. We were going through the center of town, which meant I had plenty to see. I surveyed the high walls and broad archways with amazement, thinking of how long they must have stood there and what changes they had seen. After a while, I began to wonder if this was the tour of Oxford Holmes had mentioned earlier and whether we were even going in the correct direction to see his mother. If it was the tour, I certainly was not getting the benefit of it as I could not identify any of the sights and Holmes did not deem it fit to enlighten me on the subject. Finally, we passed out of the center of town and turned onto a road with a field on one side and a row of buildings lining the other.

"Holmes, do you even know where the devil we're going?" I asked, my nerves beginning to wear thin.

He nodded, not turning his attention from the road.

"Where then?" I asked.

He gave a little snort, as if the answer to my question were the simplest thing in the world. Perhaps to him it was, but I was still very much in the dark. I turned my back to him, deciding that wherever we were going it would be better to do so in complete silence than to have Holmes mock me for my inability to see through his schemes. At this point, we had begun to approach a cobblestone church with long slit-like windows. As I watched, it occurred to me that there was very little road beyond it. "Holmes," said I, but he held up a strict forefinger for silence. We drove past the church and stopped at the gate of the cemetery. Here my friend got out of the carriage and unhitched the pony, leading it over to a plot of grass across the road. I got out of the trap, without his assistance this time, and waited for him, hoping that I had come to a desperately wrong conclusion about our destination.

Once Holmes had settled the pony and tied its reins around a small tree, he began walking towards the cemetery. I watched him, wondering whether I should follow him or wait by the trap. If my conclusion was correct then it was very likely he might want some privacy—but then if he had wanted that he would have gone by himself and left me with Mycroft.

Holmes quickly settled my question for me. The moment he reached the cemetery gate, he turned around and shouted, "Well, are you coming or not?" in that impatient tone that I knew so well. He then began to make his way among the graves.

It took a fair amount of energy on my part to catch up with him, for he used every bit of his elongated stride to his advantage—almost as if he did not wish to leave footprints on the short-cut grass. Finally, he stopped a few yards ahead of me in front of a simple tombstone. I came to his side, breathing heavily from my exertions. We were about a third of the way through the cemetery, near the left hand gate. On the tombstone were the words:

Violet Holmes

Beloved Mother and Wife

1829-1862

Holmes pulled the now somewhat wilted bouquet from the inside of his coat. Gingerly, he placed the flowers at the base of the tombstone, arranging them so that the flowers themselves were nearest the grave.

"Shall I leave you alone?" said I.

"Whatever for?" Holmes said, turning to face me with a confused look.

"I assume that you would want some privacy," said I, equally confused by his reaction.

"Don't be ridiculous, Watson," said he, going back to his task of arranging the flowers.

There was a pause between us, during which Holmes busied himself with pulling all of the petals off one of the roses and bedecking the ground in front of the gravestone with it. I, on the other hand, stood in what I can thoroughly say was the most awkward position of my life, unsure whether to ask Holmes about his mother or to leave the site completely. Finally, I decided on the former.

"What did she die from?" I asked, my medicinal training and Holmes' own scientific nature barring any more intimate discussion of the subject. However, despite my careful choice of subject, Holmes remained quiet, carefully arranging the flowers and seeming to contemplate whether to take another of the dozen and reduce it to petals as he had done with the first. Finally, I could stand it no longer.

"I should not have come, Holmes," said I.

At this, Holmes gave a little sigh through his nose and fixed his grey eyes on me. "Watson," said he. "I can scarcely see how a simple grave should be disturbing to you. Surely medical practice would have brought you to the site of more than one headstone."

"Yes, but—your mother, Holmes."

"What of her? She is dead. So is yours if I recall correctly."

The mention of my own mother brought the blood to my cheeks. "Visiting a grave is a private family matter, Holmes, and I should not have intruded upon it."

"Nonsense!" he replied.

"It is not nonsense, it is respect for the dead!" I cried.

Holmes stood up from where he had been squatting by the grave, wiping his hands of the dirt and plant matter that had gathered there. "My dear Watson," said he. "Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps not all the world sees things as you do? My mother perished by her own hand in the Autumn of 1862. As such, I have no more sympathy for her than for any other suicide that I have come across in my work, nor shall I ever. I complete these little gestures for the sake of my father and despise every minute of it."

"But she's your mother, Holmes!" I exclaimed, scarcely believing my ears.

"A mother does not leave behind two children and a grieving father for her own selfish ends," Holmes cried. "She renounced that title the moment she stepped off that chair."

There was silence between us. I had not known the severity of the loss upon Holmes' family. To think that Holmes' mother had hung herself—it was almost beyond belief. And now to see Holmes standing here by her grave, hating her for abandoning him; the tragedy was enough to bring water to my eyes. Did he even know why his mother, of all people, had left him—or had he filed it under the vast inscrutability and unreliability of women?

I did not ask why Mr. Holmes still seemed to think her alive. I have seen in the old and the sorrowing many strange things, and this was not the least of them. I had no idea how long he had been like this. Perhaps it was only the first turn in the decline of a great mind, for in all else he seemed perfectly stable. This seemed to be the only thing awry, though I had not been present long or gone into much depth on his health. However, there was no doubt Mr. Holmes actually believed his wife to still be walking those halls in the delicate state she was in just before her death. And no doubt to Holmes this was the most abominable injury to both reason and himself.

"I…I'm very sorry, Holmes," I murmured.

He looked at me then back down at the ground. "For God's sake, Watson," he said in a low voice. "Don't look so downhearted. If anyone were to be upset, it would be I, and I am not in the least. Therefore you should not, indeed must not, grieve."

"Sorry, Holmes," said I, wiping the water from my eyes with my sleeve. He simply waved his hand at me and bent over to pick up another one of the roses. For a moment, I thought he was going to reduce it to petals like the first, perhaps with more violence due to my interruption. Instead he just stood gazing at it, seemingly mesmerized by its simple, elegant beauty.

"What was she like?" I asked, trying to steer both my friend and myself towards a more respectful outlook.

"I haven't much recollection of her," he replied brusquely, his eyes fixed on the rose. "She died when I was eight."

For a moment, we stood there in silence. Finally, Holmes cast me a sidelong glance and gave a little impatient huff. "You wish to hear the story, don't you?"

I could not deny that I did, but at the same time I did not want to cause my friend any more pain than I had to—for despite his aloof manner I could see that the subject did pain him.

Finally, I decided upon a middle ground. "I will listen, Holmes," said I. "Only if you wish to tell it."

This gave him pause. He stared at the ground for what seemed like an eternity, spinning the rose gently between his fingers. Finally, he leaned against the headstone and said, "Where shall I begin?"

* * *

Oh dear, how much will Holmes tell if he only says what he wants to? This is hardly the time to give way when such intimate details about Holmes' childhood are at stake! Well, let us hope that he'll be generous.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	8. His Story Revealed

Apologies for the delay. I have recently had both the good and ill fortune to have several projects going simultaneously in several different areas. I will try to update as quickly as possible, but given my current time restraints that may not be as frequent as hoped.

* * *

I did not have what one might call a happy childhood, Watson. That display of familial affection you saw in the parlor is a regular day in the Holmes house. As long as I can remember there have been people arguing. You did not receive the pleasure of seeing mother and father in disagreement, for obvious reasons, but I can assure you that the same spirit with which my father condemns my brother and I was used against her on a regular basis. Mother was ill, you see. I believe the diagnosis, if you were to see her now, would be that she had _folie circulaire_*. She was in the habit of sleeping for much of the day and seemed perpetually tired when she was awake. Father called it laziness, but I observed where he simply saw. I observed the way she worked at getting things done when she was in this state. She would try very hard at a specific task, say knitting a scarf, and then suddenly everything would just drop, as if energy were something that she couldn't hold on to for any length of time. A perfect picture of entropy. And then there were times when she would be energetic and passionate for hours or days upon end. She would play the violin and cook elaborate meals; the house would be as neat as a pin. One morning we found her singing a very imaginative improvised song concerning Socrates and his cave whilst she scrubbed the inside of the oven. Father was none too pleased and immediately escorted her upstairs. Then there were other times when she was seemingly normal, though these were relatively few and far between.

We never knew which mother we would have on any particular day, until I started boarding school. We rarely saw the mother that sang after I left. In fact, we rarely saw her at all. More often than not she was unable, or rather unwilling, to get out of bed. Mycroft, about thirteen at this point, ended up taking charge of the household and making sure his younger brother did not go to seed, so to speak. He was the first to suggest that I study chemistry.

Mycroft was the one who found her, so I'm told. She had hung herself in her bedroom using a scarf she had been knitting for father. I was at school at the time. I remember being called to the headmaster's office and being told in no uncertain terms to pack my things and get on the next available train. To think, Watson, I thought I was being expelled! It wasn't until my science professor, who was the unlucky soul chosen to take me to the train station, expressed his condolences that I learned the truth of the situation.

The funeral was conducted in the church you see there. It was a small, very private affair. I remember wondering why the bruises on her neck had been covered up by a high collared dress. Mother had never worn such a thing in life. I had not yet learned that people who have committed suicide are not allowed to be buried in what is seen as consecrated ground. Thus, my mother was given an official religious ceremony as a victim of consumption—a feat which could only have been achieved by the combination of my father's guile and the stupidity of the vicar.

After the funeral I was kept at home. The headmaster assumed that I would need time to grieve and told my father in a telegram that he did not expect me back until January.

However, I was never to return there. A month after my mother died I was sent to live with my grandmother in France—a misguided attempt on my father's behalf to remove me from the site of her death. My _m__é__m__é_ was a twisted old widow with now only Mycroft and myself as kin. She spoke very little English, and used it only sparingly out of spite for her only daughter who had run away to "_ce pays affreux_". I only spoke smatterings of French at the time, mostly household phrases and songs, and was thus completely out of my depth.

The situation worsened when I was sent to school in Paris. It is an unfortunate truth, Watson, that when two nations dislike one another they scarcely ever attempt to speak the same language. It was thus that I found myself, at the age of eight, enrolled in a school with only one professor who spoke English. Now, I do not count myself a dull man by any means, but that first week of school was enough to persuade me that I desperately needed to study French. I used those skills of observation and deduction, which you have been so good as to put down, to learn key phrases and words. Indeed, as the years pass, I become more and more convinced it was in France that I began to exercise my mental powers for the first time. Within a month, I was speaking passably. Within two, I was able to express my views on chemistry. By the time half a year had passed, I was fluent. I spent the next two years in France, splitting my time between the schoolwork I was given and studying the works of Lavoisier and Rouelle.

When I turned twelve, my father deemed it necessary that I should return to England. During those four years, I had come to enjoy life in Paris; and _m__é__m__é_, against all odds, had come to enjoy having me there. She even had me sit for her, for she had picked up some of her brother's art, so that she might have a portrait of me before I left. It was sent to me when she died, or rather to father for I had never given her our address at Baker Street. I believe he has it hanging on a wall somewhere in the house, though I haven't the faintest idea where that might be.

I remember not wanting to leave. I had built something of a life out of my situation and was hesitant to leave it. The bustling city, furthermore, offered more to the blossoming reasoner than the supposed calm of the country. While it is easier to decipher the motives of cattle, such a project does not do much to strengthen the mind. Human subjects are much more to the logician's advantage, and Paris was full of them. However, to mention the quality of subjects to my father was out of the question. Instead, the standard childish prattle about friends and other social niceties were taken up in my defense, but to no avail. I was to return to Oxford.

* * *

*_Folie circulaire _was a term coined in 1854 by Jean-Pierre Falret to describe what is now known as bipolar disorder.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	9. His Story Continued

Apologies for the wait. One of my projects has just been completed and I have taken the time that would have otherwise been spent on that and channeled it to here.

* * *

I am not a sentimental man, Watson, but to see the look of sorrow cast across the face of _mon m__é__m__é _as I got on the train for Calais threatened to turn me into one. By the time the train had reached Calais, I was ready to defy my father's commands and take the next train back to Paris. Luckily, Mycroft had been sent to meet me at the station, perhaps out of some sort of premonition that I would as soon resort to hitchhiking my way back to Paris as get on that boat across the channel. He greeted me with a stiff smile and a handshake. I reciprocated with a similar grace as I scarcely knew the young man before me. In the space of four years, Mycroft had grown into both his height and width, making him scarcely recognizable as my pseudo-caregiver and brother. I dare say that Mycroft should not have picked me out as the grey-eyed rascal who used to do experiments in our kitchen or cause him so much trouble either. I had grown taller and my features had grown thinner and keener. The almost blond hair of my youth had grown darker so that it almost appeared black; and my nose had been broken slightly due to an unfortunate brawl with a schoolmate. I must have appeared an entirely different person to him. Of course, he did not say as much in words. He did however make some note of my change as we boarded the ship.

"You've grown," said he, seeming mildly perplexed that such a thing should occur.

I adjusted my baggage over one shoulder before glancing back at him as he stepped onto the deck. "I believe that is a natural side effect of aging," said I.

Mycroft smiled. "Quite right."

There was little animosity or awkwardness between us after that point. He quickly learned to accept that I was not overly fond of returning to England and even spoke what little French he knew with me on the return journey. I, in turn, did not try to escape my present torment, though thoughts of swimming ashore or becoming a pirate had invaded my thoughts since the ship had left the dock. By the time we reached Dover, I was almost resigned to returning to Oxford and to father.

We arrived there the following day. Mycroft, at this point, was attending University and needed to go back to his studies—a task which he asserted could not be performed at the family home. Thus, father and I were left alone with one another. You can imagine what the next few months were like. For the first full week, I refused to speak English, choosing instead to respond to any question or comment _en Francais_. My father tried to reason with me, but to no avail. It was when people began asking if my father was taking lodgers or hosting a foreign exchange that he took to more drastic measures. I will not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I was speaking English, albeit slowly, by the second week. It was at this point that I also took to loitering about the parts of the university dedicated to medicine and chemistry. There, I amused myself with more research, reading articles on logic, chemistry, and some interesting ones on forensic pathology written by a Dr. Joseph Bell. I attended a local preparatory school in addition to this, but found that it was not that challenging and certainly not hard enough to distract me from my more in depth studies.

I have said before that the countryside fills me with foreboding; that it presents a more dreadful record of sin and crime than the vilest alley in London. I say that not merely out of theory, but out of my own experience. Some of the most violent and horrifying crimes I have ever witnessed took place within a few miles of where you stand. None of them, however, were complex enough to catch my interest. They were usually simple domestic crimes brought on by low wages, drink, and misguided passion. There were a few that presented some interest, but evidence is so easily erased by bush, beast, and the sheer vastness of the crime scene that my juvenile self scarcely stood a chance. Nonetheless, I began to hang around the police station and study both crimes and criminals. Some of my information came from half a dozen Newgate novels* that I found in an old bookstore*. Such literature did not interest me on the sensational level for which most read it. Rather, I read them so that I might capture some insight into the criminal mind, for even then I knew that to understand a villain's brain is to comprehend his every move. I came to be so proficient in my subject that I began to outdo the local police force, who took to referring to me as "Bloodhound". Indeed, many of the cases that I worked on in those early years were accompanied by the phrase "Looks like 'Bloodhound' Holmes is on a scent." I will not say that the name was a particularly congenial one to me. Nevertheless, the level of familiarity that such a pseudonym provides was enough to make it useful to me in learning my craft. The police began to see me as a mascot rather than as a nuisance, possibly because I was often the first to discover a vital bit of evidence or deduce who had done the deed, and this opened up my field of inquiry more than any fifteen year old boy could reasonably have under any other circumstances.

Father, naturally, was against this situation. Indeed, I believe it irked him more than my speaking French had. He did not see crime as the proper subject for a blossoming professor nor policemen as proper companions. He urged me to take an interest in literature, even going so far as to invite Charles Dodgson, a mathematics professor at Christ Church, to dinner under the pretense of my liking his fictional works. It was much to his chagrin that I engaged the man in a discussion of symbolic logic and declined to mention any of his literary achievements.

When it came time for me to attend University, Father was set on my going to Oxford. It was the only choice, in his mind, and the most rational one. After all, he was a professor there and knew the school intimately. There was also a certain amount of pride in his doings. He was, and is, convinced that Oxford is the only place to get a true education, no matter the subject. Naturally, such an idea is foolish. Different universities excel at different things, and my particular passion was chemistry. While Oxford is an excellent institution, its chemistry program does not compare to that of Cambridge. Therefore, much to my father's chagrin, I applied to Cambridge and was accepted. There I continued my study of chemistry and crime.

* * *

*Newgate novels were stories common in the 1820's to 1840's glorifying the lives of criminals. One particularly famous example is _Moll Flanders_. Such tales were arguably the precursors to the first detective novels.

*No, it's not Blackwell's. I checked. Blackwell's wasn't established until 1879, when Holmes would have been roughly 25. Believe me, I wish I could have used it.

* * *

For the record, the name Sherlock means "fair haired." And does anyone know who this Dodgson fellow is?

Review appreciated as always.


	10. Departure

Sorry for the delay. Unfortunately, this is more of a segue than a chapter, but I still have to put the finishing touches on chapter eleven.

Thank you to everyone for their kind reviews!

* * *

It was dusk by the time he finished. A pale red light suffused everything in the graveyard, giving me the uneasy feeling that the blood of generations was covering the graves around us. The wind had begun to pick up, making the trees sway back and forth almost like ghosts released from their sepulchers. I wrapped my coat tighter about me.

Holmes, on the other hand, seemed entirely unperturbed, instead staring at the rose he still held in his hand in silent contemplation.

In the waning light, I could almost see Holmes as a little boy of eight, holding the same flower he did now in a much smaller hand and looking at it with the same soft contemplative air. In my mind's eye his father was there too, dressed in mourning and not quite sure what to do, much as he had been in the parlor. Mycroft stood a little to the side, a young man not yet grown into his height or his weight, viewing the scene with the tact and diplomacy that would later gain him an honored position with the British government.

"Well," said Holmes, shaking me from my reverie. He pulled out his watch and gave it a brief glance. "That is as much as you shall hear for the time being. It is getting late and we have a train to catch."

With that, he began striding out of the graveyard, much as he had done the first time.

"A train?" said I, thoroughly confused. I hurried after him, taking two steps for each of his long strides. "What do you mean?"

"Our business is done here, Watson," said he as he opened the gate to the graveyard. "I have introduced you to both mother and father and now it would be best to depart," He got into the trap and took the reins in his hands. "I believe if we go by High Wycombe rather than by Banbury we should be back at Baker Street before morning."

"But Holmes, my luggage…!"

"Leave it, Watson," said he as he maneuvered the trap closer to me. "I shall have Mycroft ship our luggage to us in London. I expect he already has the postage ready. He knows my methods."

"Holmes, you can't just leave your family like this. What will your father think?"

At this, he arched an eyebrow. "He will think," said he with a sneer. "What he has always thought. That I was scarcely worth the trouble of raising." He inched the trap closer to me before adding, "Now let us depart before we miss our train."

* * *

Oh dear, Holmes. That's no way to treat Watson, not to mention your family.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	11. The Station

Thanks to everyone for their lovely reviews! You don't know how they help my spirits.

I have actually split "Chapter 11" into two different chapters as I noticed a good breaking point roughly in the middle. Hopefully, the suspense is engaging rather than cumbersome.

* * *

It took us a good half an hour to reach the High Wycombe station. Holmes, who apparently knew the route intimately, chattered away about the latest works by Tchaikovsky and a violin prodigy by the name of von Vecsey. I listened with only half an ear. Holmes' previous words about the violence of the countryside filled me with foreboding over who, or what, might be lurking in the moonlit pastures. Furthermore, our sudden departure from Oxford had my thoughts straying to the little old English professor, a faded copy of the man by my side, wandering the halls and wondering when his son would return from his ride in the country.

When we reached the station, Holmes got out of the trap. He went up to a young man around sixteen years old with straw blond hair and a stub nose. The lad seemed to have been waiting for him—for the instant he caught sight of my friend he sprang to his feet and rushed towards him. I watched tentatively as Holmes put a few coins in the lad's hand and motioned towards the pony. The young man nodded with great solemnity and spoke some words I could not hear. I could, however, infer that whatever he said must have been funny, for Holmes chuckled and ruffled the youngster's hair before heading over to the ticket box. The young man, meanwhile, came up to the trap and took a look at the pony, stroking its head and examining its feet. He seemed to be overall a good horsey sort of fellow and I could see that he knew as much about the animal as Holmes did, if not more. He gave me a brief nod as he was examining the pony's back feet and a murmured "Evenin'."

"Good evening," said I. Wishing to break the silence I added, "Is there something wrong with him?"

He looked up in confusion. "Who? Oh ya mean the pony, sir? Naw, he's fine. I just always check fer stones before I drive 'em. It gives 'em a dev… a hard time if one of them gets in the frog," he replied.

"I see," said I, though I had only a vague idea what he was talking about. "You'll be driving the pony back then?"

"Yes, sir," the lad replied, straightening his posture as he did so. "I always does fer Mr. Holmes." He patted the animal's side and smiled. "Can't very well get on a train and drive a pony back now can you?"

"No, I suppose not," said I, my eyes straying to the ticket box.

It wasn't long before Holmes returned with two tickets for London by the 8:45 train. "There now, Will," said he. "Watson and I will wait in the cart until the train comes, then you may drive it back to Oxford. In the meanwhile, you might have a look at that Arabian mare over there…"

Holmes was prepared to say more on the subject, but the moment the boy heard "Arabian" he was off like a flash. My friend suppressed a chuckle as he got back into the cart. "A curious creature, Will Blake," said he. "His father was a baker, but he seems to have inherited little of his father's skill in the trade and even less desire. He is an excellent horseman, however, one of the best in the area."

"He certainly does seem to have a love for the animals," said I as I watched the young man slowly approach the mare with outstretched hand.

Holmes nodded. "He practically sleeps in their stalls, the rascal. I believe he has spent as much time around horses as it would take to get a degree in medicine. It certainly profits him as much. He is already a well-known name in horses in this area." He took out a cigarette from his coat pocket and began to light it. "I should be surprised," said he through a cloud of smoke. "If I am able to engage him by this time next year."

"He sounds very much like you, Holmes," said I.

He gave a little smile at that. "No, no, no, Watson. I was not that young when I came to the full practice of my trade," said he. "It took studies in chemistry and working out the art of deduction before I could become a skilled opponent against criminal man."

"Yet you worked on your craft at his age," I emphasized. "And were of help to the police."

"True," said he with an exhalation of smoke.

We spent the next few minutes in silence with Holmes taking long drags from his cigarette and I watching the clock that hung by the station. It was about fifteen past eight when I noticed a man staring at us from the opposite side of the street.

"Holmes," I whispered, only to be waved off as he took another drag. He was deep in thought and I was not to disturb him.

I looked back at the man. He was wearing a Paddock coat and a soft cap that covered half of his face. However, despite these, I could see that he was an older man with a pair of white, bushy sideburns framing a pair of wan cheeks. He had something of a button nose and a sharp chin which he now pointed towards us as he surveyed us from across the road.

"Holmes," said I, unsure of this man's intentions and my sense of danger sharpened by his earlier words.

"What is it, Watson?" said he irritably.

I pointed to the man across the street. My friend looked in that direction and furrowed his brow.

"Will!" he cried out. The lad appeared in an instant.

"Look after the pony," said he, his eyes still glued to the man. "I think Watson and I shall get something to eat."

The lad frowned, but knew not to question Holmes. "Yes, sir," said he, taking the pony's reins from my friend. "Will ya be wantin' her back before ya leave?"

"No, I think the two of us shall be fine spending thirty minutes at the station."

The boy nodded and moved aside so Holmes could get out. It was lucky that he did so for my friend practically leapt from the cart. He had begun walking over to a nearby pub before I could even get down. I gave a wary glance to the fellow who had been watching us. His gaze followed Holmes as he disappeared into the pub. Whoever this was, he was certainly out for Holmes and my friend certainly knew it.

"Will," said I, approaching the lad. He paused in his ascent into the trap. "Do you know that man across the street?"

Will frowned and looked over his shoulder. "Who, sir?"

"That man in the Paddock coat and the soft cap."

At this, the young man hopped off the trap and turned his head. After a few moments, he frowned and turned to me. "Not anyone that I know of, sir," said he in a conspiratorial tone. "But that ain't sayin' much. 'Less they're in the horsin' I'm not likely to know a body. I'd have a care, though. He looks like a rough sort."

I nodded and fingered the place where I normally would have kept my revolver. Believing there to be no danger in a social visit, I had neglected to bring it and now cursed my lack of foresight. Both Holmes and myself might be in danger if this ominous figure had anything to do with it. "Thank you, Will," said I, clapping the lad on the shoulder. "I shall keep an eye out."

"Ya'd best keep two fer Mr. Holmes," he said. "I ain't never seen a man so observant so blind ta his own safety."

I chuckled at that, knowing it to be far too true. The youth truly did remind me of Holmes, now more than ever.

"True," said I. "I shall keep watch for the both of us. Now you'd best return the pony."

"Yes, sir," said he, already mounting the trap.

With that, he drove off down the road and I followed my friend into the tavern.

* * *

Unfortunate that Watson forgot to bring his gun; but then he did think it was just going to be a social visit with Holmes' family.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	12. An Unexpected Meeting

Sorry about the delay. Prolonged illness and my participation in the December contest has kept me from updating. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews!

* * *

The pub was of the type that commonly dot the countryside—a small, stone building with only a few wooden chairs and tables apart from the stools by the bar. Behind the bar a large man with a handlebar moustache eyed me with the distrust that generally accompanies an unfamiliar face in a country town. I smiled at him before taking off my hat and coat and hanging them one of the coat racks. I saw that Holmes had already seated himself at a table by a small window and was gazing out of it with a concerned air.

"I'm afraid I've forgotten my revolver, Holmes," said I as I sat down opposite him.

"Hmm? Revolver?" said he, only half aware of my words.

"Yes, I left it at Baker Street. I'm afraid I didn't expect any danger…"

"Danger?" exclaimed he, seeming quite surprised. "Whatever do you mean?"

"The man in the overcoat," I explained. "I saw him, Holmes. He is clearly trying to find you."

At this, Holmes gave a little sigh and what sounded like half a chuckle. "My dear Watson," said he. "That man that you saw across the street scarcely needs to be fended off with a revolver. In fact, I doubt he shall even follow us."

"You know him then?" said I, now more curious than ever.

Holmes nodded and took another drag from his cigarette.

I could get no more from him, but I need scarcely have gone to the trouble. No sooner had my roast beef and mash been served when the man himself appeared. He hung up his overcoat and hat, revealing a very thin figure who looked like if you so much as breathed on him he might break in half and a thin patch of whitening hair encircling his head.

Indeed, now that he was closer and rid of his overcoat, I could see that the man whom I had so feared could scarcely be under seventy years old. He had a little of a tremble to his hands that signaled to me the onset of palsy and the labored breathing of a man who was accustomed to having strength he now lacked. He smiled at the bartender who gave him a polite nod in return before tending to a customer's bitter. Having paid his respects to the management, his gaze at once became fixed on Holmes. He approached us with a curious expression on his face and a light in his watery grey-green eyes.

"Why, if it isn't old Bloodhound!" he said, giving us a big grin. I could just barely see Holmes suppress a grimace.

"Watson," said he, turning himself away from the little old man. "May I introduce you to Officer Wilson. Officer Wilson, this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.

The man paid little heed to me though, so enthralled was he by Holmes. "By God, you aren't a pup anymore, are you?" he exclaimed. "Grown into your feet and your nose."

"It is good to see you as well, Officer Wilson," Holmes replied coldly. I could see from his gently closed eyes and the slight tap of his forefinger upon the table that he was deep in thought, most likely focusing on how best to make an escape from this harmless figure.

The old man scarcely seemed to notice my friend's demeanor. "I haven't seen you sniffing around these parts since '71!" he exclaimed, clapping Holmes on the shoulder—which immediately shook him from his reverie. "What have you been up to, my lad? Don't tell me you've caught a whiff of some blood in these parts!"

"I do have family here, Officer Wilson," Holmes replied, easing himself from out of the policeman's grip. "And on occasion I find time to visit them. However, as you no doubt noticed, we were just about to depart."

I furrowed my brow at that, only to see that Holmes, without my notice, had placed the fee for both our meals on the table. My friend now slipped past the policeman, shrugged into his coat, and gave a quick glance to me. I followed, somewhat more hesitantly, and gave the old fellow an apologetic glance as I put on my hat. He didn't seem to be a bad sort, after all, and I could not see why Holmes was so intent on being rid of him.

We left the tavern and began to make our way to the station. However, the old man was not to be put off so easily.

"Bloodhound!" he cried as he ran after us, one arm of his coat flapping behind him. For a man who looked so fragile, he had an amazingly fast gait. He had caught up with us despite Holmes efforts and was standing in front of my companion with a disapproving look on his face. For all the world he looked like a schoolmaster confronting a tardy pupil. "Taking a train? At this hour of the night?" said he. He gave me a look as if judging me for my part in this affair before adding, "Say now, you aren't tryin' to run away again, Bloodhound, are you? I'd hate to have to tell your father…"

"I'd appreciate it, Mr. Wilson, if you kept yourself out of my private affairs," Holmes growled.

Officer Wilson frowned and looked Holmes up and down. "Easy, lad. I didn't mean anything by it," the old officer said. "I just hate to see your old man broken up is all."

"I scarcely see how my father should concern you," he growled. "Has he broken the law recently?"

The police officer recoiled from my friend. "No, sir," said he in a worried tone. "He's a true and kind gent that don't do no harm to anyone, which is why I keep an eye out for him. Some folks want to hurt people what's true and kind. Blast me if I know why."

I heard the blast of a whistle outside and I hastily checked my watch. It was 8:43. "Holmes," said I, but he waved me aside.

"Mr. Wilson," he said in that hushed and strained tone which indicated to me that he was in the vilest of tempers. "I would take care, if I were you, not to presume upon evidence of which you have not all the facts and that is scarcely any of your concern. If I choose to leave my father's house at half past ten in the evening, it is upon my own discretion that I do so, and I shall not have a blundering policeman who cannot even call me by my proper name hindering me."

The old man gaped at him for a moment, his jaw slack and his brows knit tight. Indeed, if one had just come across the situation, one would almost think that Holmes had slapped the poor fellow, so surprised and hurt did he look. "Alright, _Mr. _Holmes," he replied, regaining some of his composure. "I'll leave you to your affairs. You choosin' to hurt your father so is none of my business, but I'll be damned if it isn't a wicked act, and one that I wouldn't take you for."

With that the old man turned on his heels and disappeared into the gloom of night.

* * *

Oh, Holmes... you could have been a bit nicer, don't you think? He was just looking out for you and your family.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	13. A Missed Train

Thank you to mrspencil for her continued reviews!

I'm afraid this one is a bit short, but it is once again necessary to the plot.

* * *

It is an odd and lamentable fact that a train never seems to go faster than when you are not on it. So I thought as I watched it fade into the distance after breathlessly running to try to catch it. As the smoke faded away, I sat down on one of the benches and tried to collect myself.

"I'm terribly sorry, old fellow," said Holmes. He had come after me at a more leisurely pace, no doubt having given up hope of reaching the train on time as soon as he heard the whistle. He took a seat next to me. "I'm not sure what came over me."

"Damnable pride is what came over you," said I. At this point, the whole adventure seemed to me a series of inexplicable behavior, foul moods, and uncomfortable situations. And to top it all off I was now going to miss my breakfast because Holmes got in a squabble with an old policeman. I have a certain amount of patience. Indeed, others have remarked that I have an inordinate amount of it. This, however, was the last straw. "All you've done this weekend is make everyone around you miserable," said I. "And I personally am tired of it."

"Watson, I beg of you, please do not lose that saintly temperament which you are so often praised for," said he, pressing a hand to his brow. "I'm sure we can catch another train."

"Holmes, the next train is at dawn," said I emphatically. "We could walk to London in that time."

"Your sense of hyperbole is as keen as ever," he murmured, letting his arms hang over the back of the bench and closing his eyes.

"Holmes, this is not a laughing matter."

"I did not say it was," he responded, not opening his eyes.

"Then what the devil are we going to do about it?" I cried.

He gave a little sigh through his nose and looked over at me. "As I see it, there are two options," said he. "We can either wait for the next train at dawn or we can go back to Oxford. You seem violently and, I might add, quite illogically opposed to the former, which I suppose means we must take the latter."

This sudden "consideration" of my feelings was too much. The annoyed manner in which he said it, as though it were a chore that had to be done in order to appease me when I had done so much for him over the past few hours was simply intolerable.

"Holmes, I shall not be made the burden in this situation," said I. "I do not see what is so terrible about going back to your own home. Less than a week ago, you told me that you were going to spend the weekend at your parents' house, and yet at every opportunity you have tried to escape it. Had I known that this was going to be an exercise in avoidance, I never should have come."

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. "And what's more," I cried. "There is an old man, no doubt anxiously waiting for you to come home, whom you seem to have entirely pushed aside like so much rubbish. Officer Wilson was right. It is dishonorable, Holmes, and I wouldn't have thought it of you."

"Watson, if I have to hear one more word about how my father is a saint, I shall go mad," said he.

"Well, it certainly seems to run in your family," said I bitterly. Not a moment after I said it, I began to regret it. Holmes stared at me with a look of pure rage. Clearly, I had hit a nerve.

"Sorry, old fellow," said I, trying to keep my temper. "I wasn't…"

He held up a finger for silence then stood up from the bench and turned towards the street. "Good evening, Dr. Watson," said he, and with that he stalked off the platform and into the night, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

* * *

Well, it seems that our thirteenth chapter has left Dr. Watson in a very unlucky position, though I doubt luck had very much to do with it.

Reviews appreciated as always.


	14. A Passing Cab

Apologies for the delay... again.

* * *

The wind blew staunchly against my coat as I began the long trek towards Oxford. For Holmes to have abandoned me like that was just the last straw. I was going to get my bags from Mycroft, who hopefully hadn't done as much "leg work" as his brother believed him capable of doing, spend the night at an inn, and then catch the train to King's Cross in the morning. Hopefully Holmes would be over whatever fit of temper he was having by the time he returned to London.

I was just trying to decide whether I should catch the 6:34 or the 7:55 when a cab began to head towards me. I veered off the road into the grass to let it pass, only to have the cab stop right next to me.

"Dr. Watson!" said a familiar voice. I looked up to see Mycroft looking at me with some confusion. "What the devil are you doing out here all alone? Where's Sherlock?"

"He left," I said abruptly. "I haven't the faintest idea where he might be."

I could see a flicker of terror flash across Mycroft's face. "Get in," he ordered without any more explanation. He opened the cab door and I obliged. Once I got inside, I noticed that both Holmes' and my luggage had been piled into the car. Mycroft himself held my brown suitcase.

"Where did you last see him?" Mycroft asked as soon as I was seated.

"At High Wycombe Station. We had just missed the last train."

"When?"

"About half an hour ago."

Mycroft cursed under his breath. "He could be anywhere," he murmured under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching the handle of my suitcase. "But… there's a chance." He tapped his cane against the roof of the cab and told the cabbie to head towards St. Bartholomew's Chapel. "An extra shilling if you can get there within ten minutes," Mycroft added.

"Mycroft, what the devil is going on?" I asked as soon as he'd settled himself once more. "Is Holmes in danger?"

"I should hope not."

"Yet there's the possibility that he is?"

Mycroft looked at me warily then sighed. "I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later," he murmured. He situated himself among the sea of luggage so that he was half-facing me. "Have you ever wondered?" he asked. "What exactly it is that causes my little brother's 'black moods'?"

"I had assumed that it was just another of Holmes' peculiarities," I replied, wondering where this was going.

Mycroft gave a half-hearted smile. "It is in part. Or rather, I hope it is."

"Are you implying," I said, starting to catch up. "That Holmes is mad?"

Mycroft looked down at his shoes and gripped the handle of his cane. "Doctor," he said after a few moments. "Your bedside manner is becoming increasingly poor, if not downright intolerable." A flicker of humor flashed through his eyes. "Surely you know better than to wave about such words as 'madness' as though they were the _Evening Times_? No, no, no. It does not become men of science to leap to such conclusions or such laced words without the proper facts."

I smiled wanly. "That's just the sort of thing Holmes would say," I remarked.

Mycroft snorted. "Quite right," he murmured. He shifted his large bulk in the cab uncomfortably. "Let us hope that he shall be the next one to say it."

* * *

Oh dear. Where has Holmes gone off to?

Reviews appreciated as always!


	15. A Surprising Discovery

Thank you to mrspencil, tyko, Ersatz Einstein, James Birdsong, and Ennui Engima for their reviews!

* * *

All plans of going to London and leaving my friend behind were abandoned now. I sat in the cab and prayed, not for the first time this evening, that we would reach our destination soon. My thoughts were filled with horrible images of Holmes in his black moods and what such a mood might do to him in an energized state. I was beginning to think the worst when Mycroft sat bolt upright.

"Stop the cab!" he shouted, thumping viciously at the roof with his cane.

The cab came to a wrenching stop. "Foolish, foolish!" Mycroft growled to himself as he tried to untangle himself from the suitcases that surrounded him. "Why hadn't I thought of it sooner?"

"Mycroft? Mycroft, what the devil is…"

Before I could complete my sentence, Mycroft leapt from the cab in an explosion of luggage and began sprinting into the nearby woods. I asked the cabbie to wait for a moment before leaping out myself.

For a man of Mycroft's bulk, he was surprisingly quick-footed, especially given the roots, branches, and rocks that made each footstep an adventure in of itself. By the time we'd made it halfway into the forest, I had to locate Holmes' elder brother by the sound of his wheezing rather than any sort of visual clues.

Finally, Mycroft came to a halt at the edge of a thicket.

There, halfway in and halfway out of the trees, was a man sprawled on the ground. Under the cover of night, I could only see a vague outline of the man's head and chest as they stuck out into the glen. Even in that dim moonlight, I could see that he was still breathing, though his breaths were ragged ones, as if he had been running a great distance. For a moment, I wondered who it was and why Mycroft was taking such interest in him. Then the figure turned so that his head was in profile.

I do not flatter myself with saying that I can recognize any man from his outline in the moonlight. However, my years of living at Baker Street had given me an eye for being able to pick out the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft knelt down slowly by his little brother, still panting from his exertions. For a moment, I wondered how many times in their youth Mycroft had gone bolting after Holmes. He certainly seemed to be accustomed to the idea if he was berating himself for not having thought of it earlier.

I took a few steps closer-close enough to see, but not be seen by the two brothers in the darkness. I hadn't the faintest idea how much damage my words had caused when I said them, though now I was beginning to appreciate their effect. As a medical man, I did not want to put my friend under any sort of unwarranted duress, and I feared that my appearance after such a fallout would be just the thing to send him limping and wounded back into the forest before Mycroft could attend to him. So, rather than join him, I watched as Mycroft smoothed a little bit of his brother's hair out of his eyes and gave a little sad sigh.

"Sherlock," he said fondly. "You know you can't go running forever."

* * *

Quite right, Mycroft.

Reviews appreciated as always!


	16. Tending the Injured

Thank you to James Birdsong, Ersatz Einstein, tyko, Tristan, Irene Adler, mrspencil, and lovewatson for their kind reviews.

* * *

For a moment, the two brothers simply stared at each other. Finally, Holmes gave a little grunt that I had come to known from my years at Baker Street as his indication of reluctant consent. Mycroft smiled wanly and offered him a hand, which Holmes pointedly ignored.

"How did you find me?" he asked as he shifted amongst the leaves, turning his head towards where I stood hidden in the shadows.

"A man deranged… Oh, let us not pretend at sensibility here, little brother. It is hardly the time nor the place. I knew as soon as I saw Dr. Watson walking alone that you were at least agitated."

"I had cause," was Holmes' terse reply.

I flinched slightly and looked down at my boots.

"However it came about," Mycroft continued with a puzzled glance at me. "A man in your state and at your age would hardly be able to navigate the paths of his youth without trouble."

"You seem to have made it in one piece."

"Au contraire, mon frère," Mycroft replied. He lifted up his pants leg to reveal a small gash in his shin, no doubt from a particularly vicious rock. He dropped the fabric and said, "When Dr. Watson tends to the two of us later, which I hope he will be obliging enough to do…" I nodded my consent from the shadows. Mycroft smiled and turned back to his brother. "I dare say that I shall be deemed the one worse for wear."

"Too much leg work?" Holmes said wryly.

Mycroft snorted. "You could say so."

I could just barely see the ghost of a smile cross Holmes' face before he turned his eyes to me. "You can come out from the shadow of that tree, Watson," said he. "My brain is not so dulled that I cannot distinguish the sounds of two sets of footsteps instead of one, nor have I gone blind in your absence."

"I simply did not want to startle you, Holmes," said I as I approached.

Holmes gave a little snort of derision. "And you thought standing in the shadows would keep me from seeing you?" he said dryly. "My dear Watson, for a man who writes about me as though I were superhuman, you have the astonishing habit of underestimating me."

"Careful, little brother," Mycroft warned as my face turned red. "I'm afraid Dr. Watson here is the only one who can attend to us. Unless you want to reveal this little mishap to Dr. Gordon?"

"And thus his gossiping wife," Holmes added with a little wince of frustration.

Mycroft smirked like a man who has just won a chess game against a difficult opponent. "Then I suggest you extend a little more courtesy towards the only man within a two and a half mile radius who can treat your wounds," he said.

I wanted to point out that it was my duty by virtue of my Hippocratic Oath to attend to all who are injured—and that even if it wasn't Holmes was my friend—but a pointed look from Mycroft told me to keep my mouth shut.

"Very well," Holmes murmured after a moment. "Though I have no doubt Watson has seen me in fouler moods than this."

"No doubt," Mycroft replied. "Now, if you'll let the good doctor take a look at you."

It did not take me long to discover that Holmes was suffering from a sprained ankle and a set of nasty grazes on his right forearm. I assumed that we must have gotten there very shortly after he fell as the blood had not yet fully clotted. By the time I had completed my examination, Mycroft and I had arranged Holmes against a tree with his foot propped up against a nearby root so as to reduce any swelling. Holmes wore a look of disdain throughout the entire procedure, though some of the anger I had seen on the platform had faded from his eyes.

I gave Mycroft a questioning look. "Is the nearest medical care really two miles away?" I asked, hoping he had been speaking hyperbolically.

"It is," he replied.

"Then how is it you walked…?"

"I believe you mean 'why,'" Holmes murmured from his seat against the tree. "And the answer is quite evident."

"Our father is a professor at Oxford University," Mycroft said by way of explanation. "To walk the streets of Oxford is to invariably be recognized as the children of a professor. This, of course, creates a certain amount of… expectation for our behavior."

"So to counter this," Holmes said, picking up the narrative. "We often went to High Wycombe as children so that we might enjoy _some_ anonymity and behave as we chose." He flashed a look at Mycroft. "Which usually consisted of Mycroft eating more sweets than he ought."

Holmes' elder brother opened his mouth, no doubt intending to proclaim Sherlock's indiscretions, then decided the better of it and simply nodded.

Meanwhile, I was developing a plan of action for Holmes' health. If medical supplies were two miles away, I would have to work with what I had on my person or risk further injury on Holmes' part. I thought back to my experiences in Afghanistan and, with a little sigh, I removed my coat.

"Watson, what on Earth are you doing?" Holmes asked as I began to take off my waistcoat as well.

"Making you some bandages," I replied as I donned my overcoat again. I quickly located the seam on the waistcoat and began picking at the thread so that the fabric would tear neatly. "As we are, indeed, two miles from any other medical care," I explained as I worked out the thread. "It is of the utmost importance that those grazes be cleaned and bandaged before you develop an infection."

"That is your favorite waistcoat," he noted. I looked up from my work to see him gazing at me solemnly and not without some surprise.

I began to get angry again. In truth, it was my favorite waistcoat, but that did not hold a candle to my concern for Holmes' health. "Do you really think?" I growled as I tore off a strip of fabric. "That I care more for a waistcoat than you?" I shook my head and focused on ripping myself another strip of cloth. "You judge me too harshly, Holmes."

A heavy silence fell between us with only the sound of my labors punctuating it. Mycroft looked between the two of us in a way that reminded me of how he'd arbitrated between Holmes and his father. The very thought made me feel sick.

Finally, Holmes broke the silence with a soft chuckle. "Ah, Watson," he said, gazing at me with a fond smile. "You are, as ever, kind-hearted to a fault."

* * *

Reviews appreciated as always!


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